


you don't deserve this

by thisisthenoid



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Can be seen as pairing, Fear of Abandonment, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lazy story, Maybe OOC, Off-screen death, ds: hamlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-01 14:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20259253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisthenoid/pseuds/thisisthenoid
Summary: at least don't take it for granted, you old stuck up fool.





	1. understand derstand under

**Author's Note:**

> started: 15/8/2019  
ooooweeee i aint dead ive just been in a major creative block for like 2 months now hjdghjsfsd im honestly not sure what broke it enough to do this but yeah  
so heres some shit! thanks  
oh wow im extra rusty i accidentally published this instead of saving it as a draft. oh well we die like men i guess

maxwell was out of his seat and rushing for the door the second he'd heard the latch click.

'hey maxwell, sorry i'm la-' in a blind panic, he threw himself at wilson, wrapping his arms around the other so tight they could practically mesh into one being. maxwell's hands tangled in bunches in wilson's vest at his shoulder blades, sharp nose tucked under the crook of wilson's neck, their chests pressed flush together. taken completely off guard, wilson simply takes a step back with a grunt, making sure they didn't fall outside in a heap. his claws hovered uselessly over maxwell's sides, all thoughts and words knocked from his brain at the sudden contact. maxwell had never done anything like that before.

'_never_ do that again.' was maxwell's raspy greeting, voice muffled from his position. 'i thought you'd- i thought- i- y-you-'

'o-okay.' wilson cuts in after finding himself, lightly patting maxwell's shoulder once. 'okay. ... i was. i got. i- mrs curls kept me back for a chat and we didn't realise how late it got-'

'i thought you'd left me.' wilson had never seen maxwell so desperate before; had never heard him sound so bleedingly open and torn up and vulnerable. had never heard him sound so worried and _concerned_. 'i thought i was alone here again. i couldn't bear the thought of-of being stuck here by my lonesome _again_-'

'w-well, i thought that was. was something you _wanted_ to happen-'

'not ever again!' his voice breaks. 'never again do i want to be left alone within this deranged world by my lonesome! there is only so much even i, the great maxwell, can take!' wilson can't tell if its a plea made from genuine emotions or more of his selfish intents.

they fall into a silence after that, thick and heavy with unspoken, one sided comforts and promises. it takes a few beats before wilson very slowly shuffles them inside the house, kicking the door closed, his claws refusing to make even a knock of contact with maxwell. it takes even longer beats before maxwell finally peels himself away from wilson entirely. he clears his throat, avoids eye contact, and brushes himself off, before making a "hmpth" noise and turning on a heel, heading towards his chair at a brisk pace.

'... well then. i'm thrilled to see you back in one piece.' he says in his normal voice, with a hint of tiredness to it, as if the entire welcome-back-i'm-glad-you're-not-dead embrace-thing hadn't happened at all. he slumps down into the blue beanbag, leaning all the way into its back, and wilson, still frozen in place after what had just transpired, simply stares at him like he'd grown a second head.

'uh. yeah. okay. thanks. ... i guess. i'm going to. to go now.' he points over his shoulder to another door in the house. 'and go do some. some science stuff. yeah.' he claps his claws together and shuffles a leg towards said door, bewildered confusion still etched on his face. maxwell simply looks back at him, daring him to say something about the event, though he doesn't seem smug about it. 'i uh, i hope you. i hope you're doing alright. and all that. yep.' another shuffle. 'have a good night.' and then he's gone, trying and failing to look like he's in no real hurry to get out of the room as quickly as possible. when wilson disappears and the door shuts tight, maxwell heaves a deep sigh to release his left over anxiety.

wilson is home. he isn't dead. he hasn't been left alone again. someone is near. and even though he knows he doesn't deserve even a sliver of what he has, he still allows himself to feel content and at peace with the pleasant change of the current happenings. for once, he doesn't mind being stuck with him. in fact, he feels comfort in who he's stuck with.

because at least he's free of Them, and in the end, that's all he really cared about.


	2. the concept of concept of (request)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> started: 17/8/2019  
as requested by gareec, who asked: "Maybe Max if Wilson did die, or before he met up with Wilson?" thank you again for both the kind words and the request!!!! i hope this is to your liking!!!  
this is probably ooc as fuck but oh well hdfghfsd

maxwell had been living with wilson for the past 200 days. probably. he'd lost count after 35. if he were being entirely honest, he doesn't even remember how they got into the arrangement in the first place. the point was, his life had seen a sudden increase in spending time with another living person, and after the millennia of being tied to the throne by his lonesome (he wouldn't exactly count Them as any kind of company), the sudden shift was a strange but welcome one.

wilson's exhausted voice replaced Their menacing demands. wilson's constant activity replaced Their sluggish crawls. wilson's noise replaced Their snarls. wilson was a comfortable replacement, even if it took maxwell days to accept his mere presence. it took a while for him to get used to them sharing a house together; the entire thing had been surreal to him, enough to knock him out of his usual apathetic smugness. it let him remember how much he enjoyed staying with another being of flesh and blood, something he would never ever admit out loud.

so when wilson left in the early morning and was gone for the entire day without any sign, maxwell was beyond a little concerned. which was ridiculous, obviously. he was the great maxwell. he did not care for the well being of others, especially someone as insignificant and meaningless and expendable as wilson.

in fact, he should have been celebrating! hurrah, wilson's kaput, no longer operating; retired, expired, quite an emancipation; released, deceased, gone bust, he's probably dust!

so why was worry worming a deep, uncomfortable hole into the pit of his stomach? why wasn't he happy? he had the entire house to himself, with no one to share it with; all the stuff and space and money and peace and quiet he could ever ask for. not even They could reach him in his little abode.

and then it hit him like a crashing truck. he didn't like being alone. not since he'd become so accustomed to wilson being with him. he'd become too adjusted to having another human near him again, someone to distract him from himself, someone who could listen to him even if he was being a dick 90% of the time. being by himself meant the voices got in far too easily, and with every ticking minute that passed, the louder the voices grew, with their vile reminders and volatile ideas and harsh truths he'd rather never think about. memories from long ago on constant repeat, words he'd never spoken to the ones he'd cared for in another life, everything hitting him all at once from years of repression, drowning him with unforgiving ruthlessness.

he thought he couldn't fall into his insanity these days, yet there he fell, without any safety ropes to slow him down. he missed wilson. he wanted him to return soon. he wondered what was taking him so long. surly it didn't take all day to walk around the shops. maybe there was an interesting deal happening, or something cool was on the market.

maybe he was avoiding the house. maybe he was stuck somewhere. maybe he really _had_ turned to dust. maybe something had finally caught him in the long, drawn out hunt. maybe he was dying somewhere, injured and pleading for help, held down by the maws of a beast he had probably created.

the taunts made him sick, and there was no way he could block them out for long enough on his own. he tried to focus on anything; the clanky footsteps of the pig guards, the busy hum and drum of village life, the groans and creaks of the house, yet nothing was enough to subdue his malicious thoughts.

so he sat and waited, glued to his bean bag chair as if he were on the throne again, completely stuck because of his anxiety and worry. he'd tap a dull rhythm against the arm of the chair, tap his foot on the plush carpet, bounce his leg, count the flowers on the wallpaper over and over and over. no matter how many times he told himself that the entire situation was ridiculous and he should stop being such a foolish degenerate and to stop worrying so much, he couldn't will himself to move or to stop caring.

slowly, light turned to dusk, and the voices in his head grew unbearably louder. he waited, and waited, and waited, until dusk turned to night and night turned into another day. his stomach growled and his head thumped, yet he stayed as still as a statue. his head had never ached so much since he'd left the throne. he despised it.

_he's dead, he has to be dead, there's no way he'd take this long, he's never taken this long to get back before, what is he doing that's taking him two days to do, he's dead, i know he is_

after half of the day passes, he stands up in a haze, eyes far away, not even feeling the pang of hunger pains. on autopilot, he steps out the house and into the cool air. he doesn't look at anyone as his legs blindly carry him to the forest, as if he knows where to look without being informed. 

it doesn't take too long to find the scattered items around a perfectly decomposed skeleton, deep within the forest, surrounded by trees and spidermonkey's and half grown flytraps. he simply stands there and stares, expression stoic. he knows it's him, deep within his gut, he knows. he wonders what got him first. wonders if it were self inflicted. he stands there and wonders all amounts of things, staring and staring and staring.

and suddenly, with little warning, he's alone with himself in the world again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the retired expired lyric thing is from the game "skullmonkeys"!

**Author's Note:**

> tumbr: whatisthefuckthis


End file.
